Greetings. I just got off the plane a little while ago and as you can imagine I'm fragged; it's hot in New York, and very quiet - everyone appears to holed up or out of town on this Fourth of July, but then that's how it almost always is. In keeping with our Grand Slam tradition here at TW, our poet laureate, Highpockets, has once again applied her talent for poesy to a new subject - the superb Serb (who else?). So let's get on with it - here is her tribute to Wimbledon and DJokovic. That's all for today - I'll have more final thoughts on Wimbledon tomorrow.
-- Pete
*SUPERB SERB*
by Highpockets, aka Cilla Reid
As Rufus, the hawk, kept the pigeons at bay,
A new King was crowned with an ardent “Ajde!”
A shift in men’s tennis; a rivalry fades,
And to the top rises this Jack-of-All-Trades.
He moves like a cheetah; his return is amazing,
And on the big points, he comes with guns blazing.
With steady resolve and Gumby-like movements,
His game is a showcase of constant improvements.
In this Wimbledon final, this grandest of tests,
The Serb left no doubt that he is the best.
He rules the hard courts; he’s mastered the clay,
And now owns the grass, to the Spaniard’s dismay.
He grew up in a country, once ravaged and battered.
Through decades of war, its confidence shattered.
The little boy, Nole, dreamed of Wimbledon glory,
And was dubbed “Golden Child,” or so goes the story.
His parents revered him and saw great potential,
So they sent him to Munich which proved influential.
With disciplined training, he excelled at his sport,
And promised his family success on the court.
He’s been seated at three in the world for awhile,
And at first he seemed cocky and even hostile.
Success came too fast and he took it for granted,
His mom even claimed he had Roger supplanted.
His critics surprised him and blunted his pride,
A Serbian trait that is ten miles wide.
But the lesson he learned was as old as fine wine:
You just can’t please everyone all of the time.
So Nole decided to himself to be true,
To relish his life and to bid wheat adieu.
He sharpened his focus; he fine-tuned his game,
He gathered his “close ones” and accepted his fame.
Now he’s a champion on Wimbledon grass,
And we’ve seen what he’s made of—moxie and class.
And last but not least, in a garden nearby,
Lives a hungry young squirrel with a gleam in his eye.
Get some rest, Rafa, your body’s kaput;
Come back to the U.S. with no sleep in the foot.